


The Steve Rogers Appreciation Society: Potomac Chapter

by Beth Winter (BethWinter)



Series: Winter Orbit [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dementia, Gen, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethWinter/pseuds/Beth%20Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them remembers right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Steve Rogers Appreciation Society: Potomac Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> This is a coda to [The Steve Rogers Appreciation Society](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1590287).

The woman in the bed is very old. The bones of her face are the same as in the photographs and clips in the museum. They are illuminated by the nightlight, the curtains and drapes pulled shut against the bright midnight of the city outside.

Alzheimer's, low blood pressure, osteoporosis, degenerated kidneys. He has her file in her hand. The security in the retirement home is gossamer thin. He can't remember what gossamer is.

It's white, like snow, like the woman's hair.

He reads the woman's name out loud from the file. "Margaret Carter."

Her eyes are watery as they open. He thought she was sleeping. She's still breathing as if she were sleeping, and he wonders if it's something that happens when you are this old.

(According to her file and the museum, Margaret Carter is seven months younger than James Buchanan Barnes.)

He pushes back her hair from her eyes. Her eyes are unfocussed, and she does not react to the metal of his hand.

"Am I dreaming?" she asks in a thin voice. "I think I dreamed before. I dreamed Steve was here. Steve's dead."

He has to close his own eyes then, because of the pain these two words cause. Words shouldn't cause this much pain, he thinks, but he also thinks that at some point someone taught him to use words, too, as a weapon, before they decided that he was better at knives and guns and fear.

Logic, soldier, someone says in his head. He has no idea who the face belongs to, but he knows the beard is modelled on Vladimir Ilich Lenin. These words are good. He holds on to them.

If Captain America were dead, the television would be talking about it. He watched the television while going through the files at reception, while the guard patrolled the building, and there was no mention of Captain America being dead.

"Steve isn't dead," he tells her.

She smiles, and this is not the tired smile of the woman in the clips of video. This smile, to him, smells of cordite and gun oil.

"Do you know who I am?"

She frowns, and to aid recollection he takes off the cap and hood, pushes his hair back like the man in the museum exhibit, moves his right shoulder forward to hide the metal arm. He tries out twisting his lips into that half-pout, half-smile in the photographs. It's disturbingly comfortable.

"I'm old, not stupid," she tells him. "You are not going to fool me, Sergeant Barnes."

Confirmation. His third data point, after _your name is James Buchanan Barnes_ and the Captain America exibition. An eyewitness. Agent Margaret Carter of the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

He can't remember who taught him that either, that in the field three clues pointing in the same direction are the confirmation cutoff for taking action based on the data they provide, but the principle is sound (logic, soldier). He kneels at the side of the bed, envying this woman. Her fight is done, and she can rest, and he can only close his eyes for a moment.

Her hand is in his hair. He should be on his guard, defending himself, but her hand is in his hair and he's helpless like a child (a young male cat, under two weeks from birth, blind).

"You aren't dead, too?" she asks, and he nods. "That's very good. That means you can keep an eye on Steve for me."

He props his chin on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. "Both eyes."

"One eye for HYDRA," she says, like an echo of a memory. "One eye for Steve. I'm too old now, but you can keep one eye on him. I cried, you know."

He makes a soft sound that might be a question he's not sure how to phrase.

"I cried when you fell. You promised me to take care of him, and you fell. You need to do better this time."

"I promise you." He tries to remember something from the exhibit, the landslide of data refusing to sort itself neatly. There's a nickname, P-something. Like a hanger. "Pegs."

She smiles that cordite and gun oil smile. "I'll hold you to it, Bucky. I'll haunt you when I die."


End file.
